March 2, 2014, morning:
Dark whispers seem to follow Oliver through the otherwise pristine lobby, mutters and murmurs and mumbled words spoken just low enough for him not to be able to overhear them. The floor sparkles, freshly polished with wax, gleaming and bright, and the gossip hangs over him like a shadow. There's no one actually in the lobby, at the moment, besides the security guard who nods from behind the front desk, but Oliver's ears ring with the words of the reporters crowding Queen Consolidated's front steps, their accusations and judgements and gleeful, hungry delight at the prospect of a scandal. It's Sunday, but reporters have never limited themselves to a weekday, nine to five schedules before, so Oliver can't imagine why they'd start now.
The weight of their words feels overwhelming this morning, his brain inflating their knowledge until their phantom voices hiss questions at him they couldn't possibly know to ask. Not just questions about Oliver Queen, but questions about the Arrow too, about his failures and his losses. Even striding toward the elevator, surrounded by empty halls and encompassed by the building's three-story lobby, Oliver can feel them cloying at him. Phantom hands, phantom nudges and pushes and grabs from the reporters still claw at him. He feels too aware, too in the moment, while at the same time old memories are at the forefront of his brain. Blood on his hands, dirt beneath his feet. A bullet in his gut and an arrow in his shoulder.
Sometimes, lack of sleep makes the world brighter, sharper – more deadly. Sometimes, lack of sleep makes the world more distant, overlaps the present with the past in a way that makes it difficult for him to tell the difference. Sometimes it does both. Oliver never hallucinates (except for that one time, but that wasn't from lack of sleep) – he knows what's real from what isn't – but his senses don't always tell the truth.
Right now he can smell the lemony scent of the cleaning solution used to polish down the handrails in the elevator, and his brain scrambles for a connection it can't find. There hadn't been much of any occasion to come across scented cleaning solutions while he was away, and it grounds him in the present, thankfully. Regardless, it's better than the all-encompassing body odor he'd been surrounded by outside – even masked with perfumes and colognes, he'd still been thrown into a pit of clamoring bodies, loud and relentless.
Those who hadn't been loud and curious had been quiet and scornful, and it's their words that ring in his ears instead, not necessarily the shouts for answers. Oliver knows he'd been too stoic, in the face of it, too hard, too still, pushing his way through the women and men who'd wanted to know 'Is it true?,' 'Do you have anything to say for yourself?', 'What repercussions will this have for your father's company?', 'What happened to turning over a new leaf, Mr. Queen?'. More than that, he'd been pushing his way through 'of course he hasn't changed' and 'did you really expect any differently' and 'not any different from the rest of them'.
They're talking about the tabloid article from last night, about Oliver Queen's latest public screw up, but all he can think of is Roy and Slade, needles in arms, arrows in bodies, and someone falling, falling, falling to their death in front of him. He can't remember if that actually happened, while he was away. It happened last week though, tainting the city's trust in the Arrow even further, even though it hadn't been him standing on that rooftop, hadn't been his silhouette caught on camera – it had been some other man in a hood, quiver on his back. The copycat. He can't remember if he's ever seen someone fall to their death, but even the lemony scent surrounding him can't stop him from picturing it as the elevator climbs, climbs, climbs, onward and upward.
For one moment of weakness, he wishes he'd taken Digg up on his offer to come with him. Digg is solid and grounding and ever lodged in the present, because Oliver had never known him Before. But Oliver has his responsibilities, and Digg has his. He might argue that his sole responsibility is watching Oliver's back, but as much as that might be true technically speaking, there are other things that come first. Like the city, and the man brewing Mirakuru in its shadows.
Oliver can't afford to miss this board meeting, with as much as he's been ignoring Queen Consolidated the last few weeks. Rochev's claws are only digging in deeper with each passing day, gladly whispering all his flaws into the board's ears. He tries to drag himself back to the present, but he's already there, almost, dwelling on the copycat he hasn't managed to catch.
'We'll get him,' Felicity had promised him, without saying the words. She'd urged him to come here this morning, urged him to take a break from the hood and the shadows before he plunges after the lead Digg's almost done tracking down. That's enough of a memory to reset his mind.
The elevator is as pristine as the lobby, and Oliver has no bad memories here that threaten to pull him under stormy waters, or bury him in an underground cage, never to see the light of day again. For all he's been trapped far too many times before, he's not claustrophobic. There are two ways out of any elevator anyway, and the small space is too bright to hide any demons. He shakes the faux-memory of a body falling into darkness, in the face of all these lights and the remembrance of Felicity's warm confidence.
They must have cleaned this morning, Oliver thinks distractedly, and that, more than the sharpened senses, more than the way his memories keep tugging on him, trying to force Waller's disappointment onto the face of the reporters, trying to replace the push of bodies with the shoving hands of mercenaries, trying to drag him under… that, more than these things, that stray thought tells Oliver he's not in the best shape right now.
He'd eaten, so his stomach's not hollow with hunger. He'd drank, so his lips aren't parched with thirst. He hadn't been in a fight, so though a low aching soreness spreads through his limbs from the efforts of a long night out – from long night out after long night out after long night out – pain doesn't flare through his nerves. The world's still too sharp anyway, because he hasn't slept, hasn't really been sleeping, but it's been four months and he still doesn't know how the Mirakuru got to Star City.
The sharpness isn't new. The clamoring of his memories, pushing at his senses, trying to draw him back on scent alone, or touch, or taste, or remembered pain, isn't new. But he shouldn't care about the janitor's schedule right now. It's situational awareness, yeah, sure, Oliver won't fault himself for that, for his mind keeping track of the rate of the elevator's ascent as they climb in order to estimate what floor he's at, or for his ears straining to hear sounds behind the elevator's mechanical whirring, or for his eyes spotting the smudged fingerprint at the bottom of the otherwise gleaming panel of buttons. That isn't the issue. The issue is that these are all minor observations, to be noticed, catalogued, and filed away until they become useful.
Dwelling on them isn't needed, isn't useful.
I need to get some sleep, he thinks, and he nearly hates himself for it. Roy's getting worse, maybe with the passage of time, maybe just because Thea's not the same steady presence she once was. Thea's getting worse too, though at least she doesn't have Mirakuru in her system. Digg and Felicity… Well, they're not getting worse, at least. There haven't been any close calls, any threatened relapses of their arguments over the past year, their temporary periods of pulling back from each other, giving each other space. They're still exhausted though, still overworked, because Oliver isn't the only one who can push himself, even if Digg and Felicity are more likely to stay asleep once they fall asleep.
And then there's Tommy and Laurel, Moira back home for months now and Emily Ambler's family living on the manor grounds to keep them safe. Walter, frowning in concern the last time Oliver had stopped in for fifteen minutes during the man's weekly lunch with Thea. Quentin and Hwang, pulling back because of orders but still going out of their way to work with them, and Hwang in the hospital because of it.
Tabloid articles that have destroyed his reputation, apparently, enough for the board to call a rare Sunday morning meeting that the press has still somehow got wind of. Oliver doesn't care. It's his father's company, and he'd worked so hard to save it, so hard to be a part of it, but he really, truthfully, doesn't care. It takes all he has in him not to jam his thumb into the close door button as the elevator opens and make his way back down without ever stepping out. Felicity's confidence in him holds him back. Digg's worried eyes as he'd urged Oliver out of the basement that morning hover in the back of his mind.
This needs to be done. Oliver's the only one who can do it. So it goes. He straightens and steps into the meeting room and ignores the sharp gleam of the morning sun on the windows and the crispness of the tailored suits around him and the smell of coffee as steam rises from plain white mugs set around the table.
This scenario, too, matches little with his memories. There's nothing to connect it too from his time away, not really, but Oliver's brain still tries. He takes his seat at the head, barely forcing out a cheerful smile and a greeting, and thinks of a bag being pulled off his head in Russia. There'd been no one else at that table though, and this one is full.
For a moment, as nods and greetings are returned his way, Oliver sees nothing but a table full of predators eyeing him up. Rochev, certainly, has a sharp look in her own eyes, hungry and pleased. Oliver pushes past it. They're sharks, all of them, and he has no doubt his appearance is the metaphorical blood in the water (and his side stings, at the comparison; really? he can't help but think hopelessly, really? The two occasions couldn't be more different). But they're sharks who think their bark is the same as their bite, who think harsh words and monetary manipulations are threat enough, so Oliver pushes and pushes and pushes past it, and forces the smile on his face to be (to appear, because it can't be real) a bit more genuine.
"There's no easy way to say this, Oliver," Mr. Springer says, probably the best of the men at the table, though Oliver cares little for that right now, "but some of us –" he glances around, takes in the way some of the members of the board lean forward, waiting for his words; the way others lean back, as if to distance themselves from them "– many of us," he corrects, though from the twist of his lips, it's uncertain if he's including himself, "are worried about allowing you to remain the public face of this company." He's leaning forward himself, slight enough that he probably doesn't realize it. There's genuine concern on his face – both for Oliver, and the company, Oliver figures.
There's a lot Oliver could say to that. If he were in the right frame of mind, he'd probably quirk an eyebrow, probably throw out a laugh, bring up the latest scandal, and assure them that the rumors weren't true, or at least, mostly they weren't. He'd probably try to ease their minds, probably promise to stay out of trouble. He'd probably at least try to postpone what's coming.
All the men are wearing suits. Suits, three pieces with ties wrapped around their necks, eight in the morning on a Sunday. Some of them have faux-concern on their faces, more for the state of the company than for him. Some of them look faintly disgusted. Some of them are smug. Rochev is leaning back, relaxed, pleased and smug, nevermind that she's not really a member of the board, and that she only holds an honorary position as part of their agreement with Stellmore International. Her lips are bright red and her eyeliner pitch black and Oliver has no doubt that she's probably wearing heels he could easily kill someone with.
He hardens under the looks. He hasn't slept in over a day. Hasn't slept well for a lot longer than that. The room is too bright, the silence too ominous. He hardens under the stares, the eager gazes, the men ready and willing to be rid of him, and only right before he speaks does he remember that he's not supposed to be this, that Oliver Queen isn't a man who snaps back.
Oliver bites back his words, but he can't bite back his anger, his impatience, his frustration. He leans back in his chair at the head of the table, a picture of lazy nonchalance, but there's no denying there's something else to his movements. A few of the looks around the table go wary, and for a moment Oliver feels a fierce rush of pleasure, so contrary to the way he usually thinks whenever he knows his family and friends are looking at him and seeing a monster. Good, he can't help but think, they should be scared of me.
"I think you're forgetting I never wanted to be in charge in the first place." The words slip out almost without his permission, almost a snarl, and the smirk on his face is too harsh, too cruel, to truly mimic his usual carefree attitude. Not too out there, not too suspicious, but it's wrong and he knows it and he doesn't have the patience to reign it in. They want to get rid of him? Fine by him. It'll free up more time for him to stay on the streets (more time to sleep, Digg and Felicity'll say, so, it'll make his partners happy too).
Springer twists unhappily in his seat, slightly, just slightly – can't mess up that tailored suit – and he glances around at his fellow board members before turning back to Oliver, licks his lips and swallows before he speaks. "Oliver. Mr. Queen. I – we – realize that you have been… consistent, in your search for someone qualified to take over your current position. I'm – we're –" he glances around again, "– not trying to deny that. But, we don't want you to think we don't appreciate your efforts, as interim CEO. You've been –"
Oliver leans forward, presses his forearms against the table's smooth surface as he stares down at probably the one man on the board who was willing to give him a chance. "A placeholder," he cuts in. "That's all this ever was." He doesn't want to lose his father's company, but that's not what this is. He's the majority shareholder. Nothing anyone says today will change that. All they're doing here and now is finally, finally, finding someone with an actual business degree so the company isn't run into the ground.
On a good day, Oliver would appreciate that. Today isn't a good day. He stands. "Well. That was enlightening. Maybe just call, next time." He glances at Rochev, in particular, as he casts his gaze over the table. She doesn't look nearly as smug as before. Frustrated, a bit, maybe. Not the reaction you were hoping for? The thought is malicious even if he's the only one to hear it. Three months. Three months she's been needling at his company, and she's been on the List for longer than that, and he still doesn't know what her game plan is. Kicking him out is, sure, a blow, but it's a glancing blow, one Oliver's happy enough to ignore in favor of the enemy that's a bigger threat at the moment.
"Oliver…" Springer says, also rising. "Don't you –"
Their gazes lock. Springer shuts up. Something in Oliver softens. Over and over and over, meeting with these men, these sharks who aren't on the List but aren't really all that much better, he's thought that Springer was the best of them.
"It was never going to be my decision," he says, and the words aren't harsh anymore. They're simple, and plain, and understanding. There's no trace of the monster in his tone, no hint of the idiot playboy. Just Oliver, acknowledging the truth to the one man here who deserves it.
He'll do his research on whoever they've chosen, and he'll remove anyone who doesn't fit his criteria – he will, in one form or another. That's a problem for a later date though. He'd put the board in charge of the CEO search last time, he doesn't see why that should have changed between then and now, interim CEO or not.
Springer hesitates. He opens his mouth, as if about to say anything. Does he believe the latest tabloid rumors of Oliver's latest scandal? Oliver doesn't even know the details himself. It's absolutely trashed his reputation, whatever it is, but that too is a glancing blow, to be looked over later, when he's off the battlefield, when he has more time for anything other than hastily applied field medicine.
Whatever gives Springer pause, it isn't strong enough to make him waver for more than a moment. Too much peer pressure maybe. Wouldn't do to appear soft in front of his colleagues. He cuts himself off, instead giving a single solitary nod, and watches as Oliver stalks from the room.
Oliver gets back from his board meeting with a grim look on his face, mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes hard, still dressed in slacks and a button down. It's not that different a look from the one he'd had on his face when he'd left, so it's hard for Roy to say what might have happened. Digg and Felicity both watch a little warily as their leader reaches the bottom of the stairs, and Felicity winces when Oliver reaches the bottom step.
The past days – weeks, months even – have been hard on all of them, and it shows. Roy, in his most lucid moments, knows he's barely keeping it together. When Thea comes over for the night – for the mornings, more accurately, because his sleep schedule will never be the same with two different night shifts to worry about – more often than not they simply spend their time lying beside each other, Thea holding him closes as he works through breathing exercises to calm himself enough to fall asleep. She murmurs sweet nothings in his ears, threads her fingers through his hair, and for a short while each day he can forget the poison in his veins, and she can forget the anger that she has towards her brother, and they can stop their arguments and their disagreements and their worry and their rage and just be.
It helps, but Roy finds himself nearly flying off the handle at the smallest of things, these days. He's been taking a leave of absence from work after he broke a guy's arm throwing him out of the club three days ago. The barista had gotten Thea's coffee order wrong a week before that, and if Thea hadn't been there…
For all that they don't have poison in their veins, haven't been infected by a drug that's slowly stealing away their sanity, Digg and Felicity don't look much better than he does.
"That bad, huh?" Felicity asks, as Oliver starts tugging at the buttons of his shirt, silent. There's more than a hint of sympathy in her tone, enough to overcome the sheer exhaustion that comes through otherwise. She'd taken Hwang's trip to the hospital hard, and even without that Roy knows she has more than enough on her plate. There're bags beneath her eyes now, and instead of her usual colorful blouses and skirts she's wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt.
Oliver only grunts in response, eyes flickering over the lair as if looking for changes. Sweeping for danger, more like. Oliver's always vigilant, but he gets even more so the longer he goes without sleep. Roy recognizes the look, and for a moment it makes him angry to see it. Is it them that Oliver doesn't trust; does he really expect to find danger here?
But no, no. You're overreacting, Roy, he scolds himself, fists clenched tightly at his sides, feet frozen where he'd stopped pacing at Oliver's arrival. Keep it together.
"Right then," Digg says, giving him and Oliver both appraising looks. "I'll set up the bags. You both look like you need to hit something."
Roy feels himself snarling. "I'm fine," he spits out. He'd waited for Oliver, hadn't he? He's staying calm, and breathing, and, and…
"You've been pacing for the past half hour," Felicity says flatly.
Roy scowls and takes an angry step toward her, but pulls himself back at the last moment. His eyes fly over to Oliver, wondering how his mentor had interpreted the movement. Oliver's eyes are sharp, and he rarely misses anything.
"Just the mats," he tells Digg, eyes on Roy.
Digg freezes, a little more life coming into his tired eyes as he glances between them again. "You sure, man?" he asks, and Roy feels another rush of anger.
He's ready for this one though, and he reigns it in, and controls it, and reminds himself that Digg's right to be concerned. He'd broken Oliver's ribs. He'd snapped his ankle like a twig, and the sound of the bone breaking still haunts his nightmares. Oliver isn't in the best mindset either.
But if Oliver says they're sparring, then they're sparring, and Roy definitely won't be the one to argue. He gives a sharp nod in Oliver's direction instead, because he can do this. He can. (And he wants to, he's wanted to for so long, barely managed to sustain himself on giving tips for months, somehow found his way into the Green Arrow's confidence, and all he wants is to get out there and prove himself.)
As Oliver moves to change, footsteps sure and quick, somehow quiet against the concrete floor, Roy helps Digg lay out the mats.
Despite whatever Oliver's mood may be, he doesn't let it control him. They don't jump straight into the mock fights they've managed to work their way up to over the course of Roy's training. Instead, Oliver walks him through his stretches first, through repetitive movements, testing how much he's learned, how much he's remembered, and his mentor's face may be stony, but he stays calm and sure of himself. Roy breathes deeply throughout it all, forcing himself to keep his head, well aware of Oliver's tenseness beside him despite the façade of normalcy.
He wants nothing more than to go out and pummel the man responsible for turning him into this, for bringing Mirakuru onto the streets of the Glades. Right now, he gets the impression that Oliver doesn't feel all that differently. But they can't find him (Digg's close, so close, working on a lead right now about some doctor, about a basement that's been erased from most blueprints, apparently, and Oliver might leave any minute, but it's not enough –).
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.
Once they finish the slow movements, Oliver teaching him how to move, how to fight back and defend, they whir into something faster. Most days, these days, they can fall into a rhythm. Roy's not sure he'd call it sparring – he's not even sure he'd call what Digg and Oliver do sparring, because even that's more Oliver working through moves with Digg – but it's something fluid, a give and take, a teaching moment for Oliver's partner, practice and exercise for Oliver himself.
They don't fall into a rhythm today. Maybe it's Roy's fault, because he's not reading Oliver right. Maybe it's Oliver's fault, because he's not reading Roy right. Ignoring each other's problems, or lost in their own. Maybe they just don't know each other that well yet, the way Oliver and Digg have learned to read each other's bodies. Maybe the Mirakuru is clouding Roy's judgement. Whatever the reason, they fall into something a little closer to actual sparring then normal. A lot closer, actually, putting some power behind their hits, grunting as they watch each other with wary eyes. It's rougher. It's crueler.
Roy's heartrate spikes. His world narrows. He keeps enough of himself, just enough, to know that it's Oliver in front of him, his mentor, the man who'd saved his heart, body, and soul, but he doesn't know much else, in that moment. Just how to move. Bare feet against the mat, sweat against his skin. He keeps his arms up for blocks, moves fast to dodge Oliver's lightning quick strikes.
He gets a lucky strike in, and for a moment he can't tell if he'd hit too hard, if he'd put too much of his Mirakuru fueled strength into the blow, and he hesitates and Oliver… Oliver doesn't hesitate. He strikes back. The blow barely stings in his adrenaline-fueled mindset, but it's pain nevertheless, a deep bruise not yet formed that he's yet to experience during these types of training sessions, in the heat of battle, and Roy…
His vision goes red. The world narrows even further. He moves, and he knows he's moving, all fury and fists, coordination and fluidity gone. The next thing he knows there's a heavy weight on him, pinning him to the mat, arm twisted behind his back, and another weight against his legs, hands holding down his calves.
"You back with us?" a voice asks. Digg. It's Digg; he's the hands holding down Roy's legs, half of the weight pinning him to the floor. Roy stops twisting, stops trying to break free. If Digg's holding his legs, then that means Oliver's…
He twists his neck around. Yeah, Oliver's holding his arm behind his back, one knee pressed into his spine, and he's watching Roy closely.
"Roy?" Digg prompts uncertainly.
"Yeah," Roy croaks out, and then has to clear his throat and wet his lips before continuing. "Yeah, I'm… I'm back." He can vaguely recall raised voices and shouting, Oliver and Digg (and maybe Felicity) pulling him out of his funk. He's pretty sure Thea's name had come up, there at the end of it. But he doesn't really remember.
Digg lets go of his legs, stepping back but keeping a watchful eye on him. He doesn't look injured, just wary. Oliver is slower to let go, taking his knee off first, then slowly untwisting Roy's arm, but he helps Roy to his feet after he's done too. It's difficult to tell if the red marks on his skin are light taps from their previous sparring or if Roy managed to land a few hits while blinded by rage. He's not holding himself like anything's broken, and there's no blood, but Roy's learned that means little when it comes to Oliver.
He glances around warily. "Did I, did I hurt anyone?" he asks. Did I hurt you? he means, because he's not sure he could handle that again. He can still remember the snap of bone in his grip.
Felicity's standing in front of her computers, a table between her and Roy. There's a wary look in her eyes too. Fear, Roy recognizes, and anger and shame war within him for a moment. What right does she have to be afraid? He's the one who – but no, no, that's the Mirakuru talking. He wrenches his gaze away from her and manages to glance again at Oliver.
"No," Oliver says simply.
There's no way to be sure he's telling the truth. If he'd injured anyone, it was Oliver, and he's not sure if Oliver's in a mood that would be willing to share that information.
"You need to focus, Roy," Oliver continues, sharp and biting. "If Digg and I weren't here –"
Snap.
"You're the reason I'm angry!" Roy finds himself shouting, and he knows it's the Mirakuru and he knows that Oliver isn't the one he should be mad at and he knows that Oliver and Digg and Felicity are doing the best they can and he can feel his hands shaking at his sides and… "You're holding me back! You've always been holding me back! If you would just let me out there, then maybe we wouldn't be in this mess anymore!"
It's like all the anger he's held inside himself for months – for years – starts boiling over, and Oliver's right in front of him, Oliver's a convenient target.
He takes a breath, more of a pause in his shouting than a conscious effort to stop, but it calms him somewhat. So does Oliver's stoic façade in front of him, unflinching even as Roy blames him for everything, still not moving to fight. He pulls in another breath and clenches his fists.
"I just… If you would just let me fight –! You're this close to tracking down the Mirakuru, and you still won't let me help you!"
Oliver doesn't respond right away. He stands there, unmoving, until the silence starts to get awkward. "Are you done?" he asks, roughly.
Roy grits his teeth at the wave of anger that washes over him at that, but self-awareness has returned. He's… he's going to regret this, later.
He clenches his jaw and turns away. "I don't want to be mad at you," he snaps out.
"Better me than someone else," Oliver says bluntly.
Roy almost snaps back again at that because no, that's not better, because Oliver is… Oliver is… He'd be dead without Oliver. He'd be dead, and worse than that he'd be soulless, unchanged, uncaring. Or he might be one of those kids on the streets, gun in his hands, racking up a ledger of red.
"I… I didn't mean that," he manages to say. "This… this isn't your fault." He can't bear to see Oliver's expression, so he doesn't look. "I… I just need to calm down. I need…" he shakes his head and moves forward, intending to push past Oliver, take the stairs and run away. Where, he doesn't know just yet, but he can't be here, needs to be somewhere else, needs to take the time to breathe in without the constant reminder of how bad things are getting.
Oliver steps in front of him, movements sure as always, and Roy's feet skitter to a halt on the mat. He swallows, looking up at his mentor, but Oliver's expression is impassive. He stares down Roy, searching for something, before he nods once and steps aside.
Roy swallows again, glances over at Digg and Felicity, standing silent on the sidelines, then makes his way up the stairs. He doesn't look back again.
The world comes back into focus slowly. Her head is pounding, and there's a crick in her neck and the feeling of a warm body pressed against hers.
"Tommy?" she murmurs, barely audible, eyes still closed.
"Guess again," another voice replies. It's soft and gentle and weak, coming from Laurel's right. Jo? Why is Jo's voice…
Laurel's sitting up. It wouldn't be the first time she'd fallen asleep at work. Jo's voice is coming from her right. It must be Jo's shoulder pressed against her own. But then, whose body is pressed into her lap, whose head rests across her legs? She tries to move, to straighten, to frown – to open her eyes fully and see anything beyond shadowy darkness, but something restricts her, and pain flares in her shoulders, and everything comes flooding back.
A shaky laugh moves the shoulder pressed into her own. Oh. Laurel'd let slip a few swears, at the pain of trying to move her hands. "We've been zip tied all night?" she asks before she can stop herself. Pointless question.
"I don't recommend it," Jo replies.
Laurel blinks again, and tries to shift her head to look at her best friend, but she doesn't have much luck.
"Give your eyesight a minute to adjust," Jo says. Her tone's still soft, but it's weak too, Laurel realizes. It's not just gentleness that's tempering Jo's words but exhaustion – the panic at their situation seems to be gone now, and resignation has set in.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs.
Jo laughs again, just as shaky and tenuous as she had at Laurels' unexpected outburst. There's probably a hint of hysteria, somewhere in there. They're seriously going to have to talk about this, when they get out of here. When, not if.
"Suppose it was my turn, right?" Jo asks quietly. "First you, then Tommy? Except I dragged you with me."
No. No, definitely not. Laurel feels horror sweep over her at Jo's resignation. At Jo blaming herself, and at the fact that it sounds like Jo's given up.
She twists her head again, and her eyesight has returned enough to direct the full force of her glare onto her best friend. Or, well, the full force of her glare in the dim lighting that's coming through under the bottom of the door. "You can't think like that. This isn't anyone's fault but theirs." It isn't. (And even if it is, even if Laurel thinks… Well, blame won't help anybody right now.) "We're going to get out of this."
Something in Jo seems to strength in the face of Laurel's resolute statements. "My turn to get rescued then?" she asks. "You know, I've always wanted to get rescued by the Green Arrow."
"No you haven't," Laurel shoots back, even as her mind goes to Oliver. God, Oliver is the Green Arrow. She's not sure that it'd really hit her until this moment, tied up in the dark with Jo and Sin, perfectly aware of exactly how precarious her situation is.
Jo snorts softly, and this time her amusement is a little more real and a little less hysterical. "No, no I haven't," she agrees.
"Is it time to try screaming yet?" Sin mumbles, head still in Laurel's lap. It can't be a comfortable position, her hands equally as tight behind her own back, but Laurel doesn't begrudge the younger woman for taking sleep any way she could. She hadn't thought she'd be able to sleep, but clearly she'd dozed off at some point.
She shakes her head in answer to Sin's question. It'd taken them ages to work their gags out last night, but careful maneuvering and they'd managed to help each other free, from that at least.
"We still have no idea what time it is," she points out, pointlessly. It'd been late at night when they'd been grabbed, but how long had passed while they were drugged? How long have they spent in this room?
Sin grumbles, pushing herself upward with effort, and Laurel can't see much in the dark room but she can picture the disgruntled look on Sin's face.
"Not like anyone would hear us down here," she agrees, "even if it is morning."
Laurel's pretty sure – and the others had agreed with her – that they hadn't actually left the clinic last night. Still, they seem to be in some sort of basement, based on the faint memory of stairs and the thick concrete walls around them, and they'd been quiet enough last night (early this morning?) to hear the guards outside their door. Yelling won't help.
"Well," Jo counters, "if Laurel is the one to scream, they might."
Laurel huffs out a laugh that surprisingly isn't forced, a touch of relief settling in her chest. Good. Jo's still joking. That's… She won't deny that she's terrified, and it's obvious Jo is too, but she hasn't lost hope. That's good. "That was one time," she says. She was startled once, and Jo's never let her live it down.
"That sounds like a story," Sin says.
"Oh, it is," Jo says, and it even sounds like there's a faint grin on her face.
"One for later," Laurel promises, half joking because if it was any other situation that's what she'd be doing – laughing with Jo and cajoling her not to spill the story to their new friend.
"Couldn't hurt to try though," Sin says, and she sounds like she's grinning too.
Whatever her decision would have been, Laurel doesn't get the chance to make it. Sin and Jo won't be finding out how loud she can scream today, because the door opens up at that moment and all three of them recoil, taking a moment to blink at the sudden influx of light.
"Well, this is a pickle," someone says as Laurel's eyes slowly adjust. It's a man's voice, and she's almost certain it's not Anderson's, or either of the lackeys who'd spoken last night. His silhouette is average – average height, average hair – but backlit as he is, even after her eyes adjust she can't get a good look at him. "What are we to do with you?"
"You could always let us go," Sin snarls.
The man chuckles softly. "Charming," he says, sinister amusement seeping through his tone. "Miss Lance and Miss de la Vega I am aware of. You, on the other hand, I don't believe I've had the pleasure."
Laurel straightens as much as she's able, refusing to show fear. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure," she snarls back at him before Sin can say anything – not that she's really worried about Sin giving her name.
The man takes a moment to straighten his sleeves, seemingly unconcerned. "No, not technically, I suppose," he agrees. "However, Anderson was fussing about you two quite a bit. Do you know, I actually assured him that you would be no trouble? I suppose I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong. And you…" he chuckles again. "You certainly proved me wrong. You know it's not often that happens."
"Go to hell."
"Now, now," the man chides, "there's no reason not to be polite here."
"I can think of a few," Jo shoots back at him, speaking for the first time.
"I cannot imagine why you would blame me for this turn of events," the man says, sounding like he actually believes it. "After all, you were the ones to trespass on my property." He waves a hand, suddenly dismissive. "Now, that, I could normally let slide. You'd be surprised the number of malcontents who attempt to lift drugs from clinics in the Glades. Or, well, I suppose you wouldn't, given your profession. No, no the trespassing isn't the issue. See, the problem is, that Anderson assured us that you were only interested in his wrong doings. But my men found your little paper trail, and it seems like you were looking into a little bit more than that. Care to tell me what you found?"
Laurel steadfastly doesn't respond, staring the man down, and she's pleased her friends follow her lead.
The man waits a moment, until the silence starts to feel awkward, and Laurel's glare starts to feel pointless rather than the act of defiance she'd meant it to be.
"No? Well, no matter. It can't have been much. Unfortunately, I cannot let you leave. I have my own little deal with Anderson, and that includes handling minor nuisances such as yourselves."
"Minor?" Sin cuts in, grinning viciously. "Weren't you the one who just called us trouble?"
The man raises an eyebrow at Sin, and holds it, again waiting until the silence becomes uncomfortable and Sin actually shifts back at the weight of his baleful glare.
"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," he continues, as though Sin isn't right there, "my deal with Anderson includes handling any messes that arise. Before we get to that, I need to know if there's anyone else involved in your little scheme, anyone you might have told about where you'd be tonight?"
It… it really would have been smart to tell someone, Laurel can't help but think regretfully. Hindsight is 20/20. But, while Oliver had been the obvious choice, she hadn't wanted him to try and convince her she couldn't follow through – he'd given her the List, after all, and it wasn't so she could go running back to him. And if she'd told Tommy, he would have wanted her to tell Oliver. So she'd just… assumed that the three of them were enough to handle an empty clinic at night. She'd never imagined that Anderson was involved in something this big, even with the rumors Sin had brought to their attention.
She shouldn't have dismissed those rumors so easily. Should've taken more time to investigate, upon learning that the issue was bigger than just Anderson. The clinic had meant to be easy access to Anderson, since they couldn't get to him at the hospital. Then Sin had told her everything she knew and…
The man in front of them isn't saying much, but he has said enough. He's the one protecting Anderson. He's probably the guy who sweeps Anderson's his wrongdoing under the rug. And Laurel doesn't doubt he does it for the others at the clinic. It's clear he's the man in charge.
There's a lot she should have done differently, but she'd been too eager to do something, and now she's dragged Jo and Sin along with her.
In the face of the man's question, Laurel remains steadfast, no matter how long he stretches out the silence. He wants to make them uncomfortable to get them to speak? She won't give him the satisfaction. No matter how worried she is.
"No? Well, perhaps your phone's passcodes, so I can check your messages?"
"Don't want to hack in?" Sin snarls.
"Quite honestly, it's not worth what a hacker would cost me," the man answers, casual as ever. "Your devices are off at the moment by the way, so don't imagine that someone will track you down that way." He pauses again, evaluating their reactions to his latest statement. "No? I assure you, it would make your lives much easier."
"And yours," Laurel says. It's not defiant. It's a simple statement of fact. This man can threaten them all he wants, but she won't stand for his lies.
"Indeed."
Silence settles again. Laurel refuses to let it be awkward.
"Well if you're not going to kill us then, how about some food? Something to drink?" She shifts, shoulders aching, and just barely refrains from asking him to take the zip ties off.
"Oh, I am going to kill you. Apologies if my words were misleading. I just need to make sure no one else is going to snoop into our affairs anytime soon. We don't need to rush into things. No, no, I only meant that your words would influence the manner of your death. I'm quite happy to make this slow, if you insist. In the meantime, however, there's no need to make a mess." He steps aside, nodding to someone outside the doorway.
Another man steps into the room. Laurel can't be certain, but she thinks he's one of the goons from last night. He's got a pair of pliers in one hand.
"My man will escort you each to the bathroom, individually, and I'll see about getting you some water. I'm afraid that's all the comforts I can offer, however."
True to his word, their captor allows their bonds to be snapped and for each of them to be taken to the bathroom – one by one, of course. Laurel tries to get a good look around in whatever underground structure they're in now, but unfortunately they're blindfolded on the walk over. The most she can tell is that it isn't far, and they almost certainly are underground, given the thick concrete walls in the bathroom and the lack of any windows.
Once she's back in the room, the last of them to go – Sin had offered herself up first – the goon pulls out new zip ties.
"I expect your father taught you how to break out of your bonds, Ms. Lance, so, do try not to make me go through too many zip ties. Even if you do break them, you won't be leaving this room without my say so," the man says, leaning casually against the wall just inside the door as his goon restrains their hands in front of them this time. "Perhaps one last chance to spill what you know?"
"Why?" Laurel asks honestly, narrowing her eyes, trying to think. "You're just going to kill us anyway."
"As I have already mentioned –"
Uncaring about the man's constant comments about manners, Laurel interrupts him. "Yeah, I know. Fast or slow. Honestly, that's not much of a bargaining chip." It's a lie – Laurel very much does not want to die, she very, very much does not want to die painfully, and she can't even express how little she wants to see her friends suffer – but her voice remains steady as she tells it. She refuses to believe they're going to die here, had steeled her nerves during their "break", and she's going to get as much out of this man as she can.
Their captor is no cliché movie villain. He doesn't seem interested in spilling his plan to them. That doesn't mean he hasn't dropped hints, here and there, hints that only confirm the bigger operation Sin had suspected does exist.
"Hmm," the man vocalizes, as if he's actually contemplating Laurel's words. "How's this, then, for a bargaining chip? Anderson is, quite honestly, small fish. If you share with me everything you've learned, and who else knows about it, I'd be willing to break my contract with him."
Laurel takes a stab in the dark. "So what? You don't protect him from lawsuits anymore? That just means he keeps getting away with it until he actually creates a victim willing to stand up to him." It's a guess, what "break my contract" means, but a good one, based on the way the man's eyes narrow.
But he straightens where he stands, moving away from the wall, and doesn't take the bait. "Well," is all he says, "I'm afraid that's the best I can offer. I'll give you some time to consider your options." He leaves the room, the door clicking shut with a sinister finality behind him.
For a moment, tense silence settles into their small room.
"Well," Sin says after a moment, "at least they left the light on this time."
Despite herself, Laurel lets out a snort of amusement – at the unexpectedness of the comment, rather than the content of it, she supposes.
"Is this where we make jokes and pretend everything's going to be alright?" Jo asks weakly.
All thoughts of the larger conspiracy at play here go out the window at Jo's unsteady voice. Laurel immediately glances her way, wincing at the fear in her friend's expression. It's not that Laurel isn't afraid – she very much is – it's just that she's managing to focus on other things, things like taking the attention off her friends and discovering their captor's plans. She… well, it'd be wrong to say she's used to this, but she's looked in the eyes of men who want to kill her before. She'll probably be panicking just as much as Jo, when the moment comes, but for now…
"Would that make you feel better?" she asks honestly, shifting where she now sits so that her knee presses against Jo's.
Jo gives her a weak smile, settling back against the wall behind her. "No, I suppose not," she answers.
Silence settles between them, anxious – how could it not be? – but otherwise comfortable. Whatever happens, they all know they're in it together.
Time passes in fits and starts, slow and fast at times. Uncomfortable and, admittedly, bored as they are, sometimes they drift off, though never all at once. They try to talk, at times, but quite honestly they have no idea if anyone's listening, and none of them wants to talk about anything personal trapped in an underground room and surrounded (probably) by criminals. Which leaves Laurel with little to do but think.
Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. Oliver is the one who rescued her the last time she was kidnapped, Oliver is the one who rescued Tommy, who stopped his mother's and Tommy's father's plot, who'd helped her bring in numerous criminals from the List, and nearly single handedly has decreased street crime in the Glades. Laurel's had months already to consider all this, but her current situation puts everything in a new perspective.
Particularly because Oliver has absolutely no reason to come rescue her and her friends now. He doesn't know she's missing. She wasn't grabbed to get back at him. She hadn't told Tommy about the break in. Part of that, yeah, had been her not wanting him to talk her out of it, but part of it had been plausible deniability. Laurel's spent her whole life listening to her father's axiom – you don't need to go outside the law to find justice – even if she hasn't always believed it. (That's why she became the law, because she could see the flaws in her father's words, and had always been determined to make the law be enough, especially in cases where it usually wasn't.)
She knows perfectly well how illegal her actions tonight – last night – were. There'd been no need to bring Tommy into it, even if he'd kept up with the bare bones of their investigation into Anderson.
The thing is though, the thing that's eating up at her, the thing that really makes her think that there's no help coming this time, is that he probably won't even notice she's missing. Not in time. He's stepped back from Verdant a lot since Thea took over, and since he's shifted his focus to reopening his mother's clinic (or, at least, opening a new clinic in his mother's name), but that doesn't mean he doesn't go in sometimes, particularly to help out Oliver. And with as crazy as the city's been getting lately, Oliver needs all the help he can get.
Laurel isn't really involved, but she knows there's been a lot of late nights in Verdant's basement, and that Tommy's been helping to pick up an extra shift here or there. That's why she'd chosen last night to break into the clinic. Tommy wasn't (isn't?) supposed to be home until after she'd already left for work, and he'd already been gone before she'd met up with Jo and then Sin.
He'll think it strange she doesn't reply to any texts he sends, but he's also still being careful to respect her space and give her time to come to terms with what he's known for a year already, and the fact that he's kept it from her. It'll be evening, at the earliest, that he even begins to suspect something's wrong. Laurel doesn't know if they have that long.
Eventually, their captor returns. Laurel guesses its well past noon, though whether it's still afternoon or well into the night she couldn't say. They've been forced on two more bathroom breaks apiece, whether they'd needed to go or not, and they've each drank a single 16oz water bottle. (She'd considered saving a bit of hers, but quite frankly, she doesn't think they'll be here long enough for it to be necessary.)
"Well," the man says, "I did say I wanted to know who you might have told, but my patience only lasts so long. I'm afraid this is your last chance."
Having spent the past however many hours in a lit room, with her arms restrained in front of her, Laurel's in a better mindset to evaluate the criminal in front of her. He's average height, with thinning brown hair cropped short and a round face. He's wearing a suit, brown, though there's no tie, and the top button of his shirt is undone. There's a tan pocket square sticking out of the pocket on his left breast, and she thinks she catches a glint of cufflinks from his wrists. Nothing about him is particularly noteworthy, and she doesn't recognize him in the slightest.
He doesn't look particularly menacing, but that doesn't stop Laurel from feeling a shiver run down her spine as he patiently waits for their answer, gaze flickering over all three of them. She forces herself to sit upright, keeps her spine straight, and very pointedly does not respond. They'd had a chance to talk about this, briefly. Sin had admitted Roy and Thea knew about her idea to investigate the clinic (well, she'd implied, in a roundabout way, without saying any names), and all three of them already knew Tommy's loosely aware of what's going on. They could lie, or fudge the truth, because they really hadn't told anyone they'd be at the clinic last night, but they'd decided on silence.
Laurel doesn't particularly want to suffer, but if she's going to die anyway, she's not bringing Tommy down with her. From the way Jo shifts nervously and Sin grits her teeth, she can imagine that similar thoughts are running through her friends' minds. It's not… it's not happiness, to see that their resolution matches her own, but there's still a quiet contentment underneath her fear. An understanding, perhaps.
Solidarity. That's the word. They're in this together. None of them are backing down from that.
Their captor frowns – more contemplative than upset. "Ah well then, can't say I didn't warn you. I'm afraid we'll have to move to a secondary location for this next part. We simply don't have the equipment to take care of the issue here."
Not contemplative, Laurel corrects, mentally sneering, displeased. Because we're nothing more than a mess to him.
"Call it what it is," she can't help but spit at him. "Murder."
The man raises an eyebrow, and now he seems amused. "Not self-defense? You did break in, after all." He doesn't seem bothered by her glare in response, but he shakes his head after a moment. "Right, lawyer. I should have known better than to try." He turns to the side and gestures again, and the same man who'd broken their bonds earlier, who'd stopped in to escort them to the restroom, reenters the room.
"We'll be doing this one at a time again," the boss says. "Less risk that way, less moving pieces to manage. Who wants to go first?"
Before anyone can say anything, Laurel squares her shoulders and juts out her chin. Their captor interprets the movement correctly, even before she can say anything.
"I expected no less, Ms. Lance." He nods at his goon.
Laurel gets to her feet of her own accord, but she can't stop the man from grabbing her elbow as he escorts her out of the room. They don't get far. Something causes the boss to raise his hand, bringing her and his goon to a halt just outside the door. He's frowning at something, and Laurel takes the chance to look around, wondering if there's anything she can use to escape, or at least fight back. She can break her zip ties – her hands are still in front of her – if she can wrench her arm free, but that might not be enough.
The space outside the room they were kept in is a large concrete chamber, potentially stretching across the entire clinic above them. Large cylindrical columns block her view of much of the room, but Laurel can still tell that there's not much to see anyway. There's a table near the center of the room, a few people gathered around it, discussing whatever papers are in front of them. The stairs are to her left, visible along the wall, no railing blocking them from the rest of the basement. It's towards the stairs that her captor is looking at the moment.
"Go check on that," he says, frowning and jerking his head towards the stairs. He pulls a gun out from under his suit jacket as the man holding Laurel moves to do so, and points it at her in the meantime. "I'm hoping not to use this," he tells her mildly, "but don't think that I won't. Clean up here would be a pain, but you escaping would be worse for my bottom line."
Laurel doesn't doubt him. She stays where she is, and scans the room again. It doesn't help her pick out anything new, and the people discussing things at the table aren't speaking loud enough for her to hear anything either.
Movement from the stairs catches her attention, and her captor's too, and she jolts in shock as the goon goes tumbling down the stairs, arrow in his shoulder. Her heart rate jolts, eyes widening, as Oliver rushes down the stairs after his arrow. How did he know –?
There's no time for questions. Her captor is already moving, hurrying toward another door, and with the gun no longer focused on her, Laurel forgets all about him. She tenses her muscles, mimics the move her dad had made her practice a hundred times, and her self-defense classes had made her practice a dozen more, and snaps the zip ties restraining her. Her wrists sting, but she forgets that too, pushes it from her mind and turns back to the room her friends are still in. Sounds of fighting echo through the large room from behind her, gunshots too, and while Laurel is loathe to turn her back to it, she forces herself to trust Oliver.
In the meantime, she barrels through the door and yanks Jo to her feet first, watching as Sin follows suit.
"C'mon," she urges them, "the Arrow's here. Time to go."
"What?" Jo asks, startled out of her anxious fear. "Here? How?"
Laurel shakes her head. "No clue." She pulls them to the doorway with her, but pauses just outside, making sure she's in front of both her friends as she scans the scene once more. There'd been about six or seven people around the table earlier, and half of them are on the ground now. Groans can just barely be heard over the stray gunshots. The goon who'd been about to take her to her death is no longer at the bottom of the stairs but is fighting Oliver, arrow still sticking out of his shoulder. Another man is side by side with him, and Oliver moves fluidly, dodging and hitting with his bow as he handles both of them at once.
For a moment, Laurel feels sick. It's the stench of blood in the air and the cries of pain and the memories of that prison fight. This is Oliver in front of her, Oliver making men bleed without remorse.
"Woah!" Sin says, stepping out from behind Laurel to get a better look at the scene.
Oliver glances over. Laurel is almost certain it's meant to be a momentary glance. Looking to see if there's someone else he needs to fight, probably. He's just brought down the top goon and the other one is struggling to get to his feet again. But in the end it isn't just a momentary glance. He seems to freeze at the sight of them, and it's just a second, barely a moment, a beat of her heart, but it's enough time for the crack of a gunshot to echo through the room.
Oliver's left shoulder jerks backward, his feet following after it, and it takes Laurel a moment to connect his jerky movements with the fact that he'd just gotten shot. In that time, Oliver nocks and fires another arrow, taking out the man hiding behind the table who'd shot him, then moves forward to take out the man now on his feet with his bow. It doesn't take him long to bring down the last man, who's ducked behind a pillar. It's fast, and it's brutal, and he gives no indication that he's injured.
Even knowing who's beneath the hood, Laurel's having trouble reconciling the violent hero in front of her with the idiot playboy she'd once dated. She'd known from the moment Oliver had returned that he wasn't the same man she'd fallen in love with. But this…
"Someone called the cops," Jo says softly at her side.
Laurel comes back to awareness and picks up on the sound of sirens from above them.
"I did," the Green Arrow says gruffly, moving toward them, voice synthesizer turning Oliver's tones into something rough and harsh.
She wonders if she's imagining that she can still pick up his voice beneath it anyway.
"Go," the hero continues. "Tell them what happened here."
There's nothing soft in his words and Laurel keeps realizing, over and over, that she doesn't know who Oliver is anymore. Oliver had never been particularly empathetic, but there'd always been something kind beneath his spoiled exterior. She's not sure she can see that anymore.
She nods once, hurrying her friends toward the stairs, then hesitates as they make their way up. "The boss," she says, "he… he went that way." She gestures.
Oliver nods once.
Laurel looks back toward freedom. "How did you…?"
"I didn't," he admits roughly. "This clinic is tied to the Mirakuru. Are you…?" For the first time, there it is – a hint of Oliver beneath his shadowed costume.
"I'm fine," Laurel says. "We're fine. Just shaken. But…" she glances back toward the stairs again. Sin and Jo seem to be lingering at the top, waiting for her, but they're far enough away that they won't be able to hear her. "Oliver… if, if this is what it takes, to save people in this city, I can… I can understand that. And I'm… You saved us. You've saved me a dozen times. I'll never forget that. But I don't know if I can be a part of it."
"I never wanted you to be," Oliver says, and it's another rare moment of Oliver Queen shining through from beneath Green Arrow's hood.
Part of Laurel is hurt by the reminder that he never meant to tell her. But the rest of her can't help but finally understand why he didn't. She'd prefer the truth over lies any day of the week – she'll never regret being told. But she can understand why he didn't. That's… that's enough for her. She nods once and hurries up the stairs behind her friends. She doesn't look back.
AN: Well, it's not April, but it's still pretty close, right? I've got about the next three chapters written but not edited, and the remaining chapters outlined. I'll probably post one more chapter in June, and then start up with a more regular schedule again. Thanks again for everyone's patience!